When I tell you of my desire for a Virgil to guide me and you ask me to please explain what I mean, inside I want to say that I said exactly what I mean and if there were a clearer way of saying it I how have done so. Instead what comes out of my mouth is something about wanting to find a mentor. You walk away assuming you have understood me and I know you have not. It is difficult to be a lover of stories today. We are a generation born under Saturn, so old and so wise. Stories are for children and other gullible people. True knowledge is found in abstract dissertations, not in the woods of faerie. Get rid of your elves so we can talk about something important like budgets.
When I tell you that I have found something solid and concrete at the gates of dawn with Mole and Rat you stare at me confused, then proceed to tell me the latest book you have read by the latest popular person. I sit and listen sympathetically, while the piper’s music echoes in my brain. All I have for company is a simple Mole and a simple Rat.
When on my bed alone I read “Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote, The droghte of March hath perced to the roote” and marvel at the sparkling words, you complain that I should have gotten an English translation. Beware lest I read louder still and “maken swait melodye.” But no I will not because I am meek, not because I am weak. I myself have journeyed to the Black Gates and through Inferno’s fires, “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”
I do not blame you for being the way you are, sundered from the tree of tales. You and I were born under a different star or rather you were born under a sky filled with electric light and I under twinkling stars like diamonds on black velvet. My only sadness is that I must so often travel alone into that perilous realm and pick its guarded fruit, watched by unsleeping eyes for even Dante never had to walk alone, except briefly in Earthly Paradise.